Incendiary Bolt
by Fuckshit Avenue
Summary: whop
1. Genesis

Pearl gave a shrill shriek as the demonic superhand of the half-bleached lesbian cheeto roared uproariously up from the watery confines. The fusion slammed into another cockroach, grunting in annoyance as its insectile innards sloshed around her nine boots.

Steven did growl as the ravenous ravioli dish scrambled down a path that everyone knew but none had discovered. The mountainously spiked fist of another sand dune superturtle nearly penetrated the squishy flesh of the insulin-lacking behemoth deathgrowl, the _bazobblegrumfles_ , as they referred to themselves by, rocked the seventy-eighth district of Ingrid Rabbletops, Stellar Megaparty is what they'd only known.

The orange, dementia-filled cartilage carrier spooned up feverously from the cerulean vastness, relishing the three and nine stars that the world forgot. Rangled had the rised camps be, yet the fruitless intuition of the wrapped rapped the rap rape from the scungle bungle. What of the Christened Gimmies lasted was a singular, mangled, blood-splattered, tattered piece of torn cloth.

The obese quartz squeezed another jar from a jar onto the next jarring jar that had been crumpled down from the Egyptian days that dug the ground. "Dammit…" Steven mumbled coldly. "These jars really jammieruffle my socks?" The rounded edge of the duplicitous yet woven title that encapsulated none other than Carl Sagan materialized into existence. The deep-voiced narrator bursted from the thread of the fabric of the material of the foundation of the structure of the building of the city of mankindred inbendo.

"Scrumplehop the gringo" spalled the helmodraphic ectoplasmic endophobic supercaster Tourmaline, still crashing the saw repeatedly into the timber stock of the lonesome tree. "This damn child won't sing" The tree gave a final, natural groan of sympathetic relish. Steven knew no one who had crashed so vigorously through the nine-tailed stocks. He rammed into another brick house, the bungalow apologetically apologizing for its transphobic transgressions of not raping a man with a strap-blonde.

Lars smiled as the stack of money solemnly bowed to him with a stark and pecuniary "Hello!"

The coins did the same, their copper edges scraping through the space that held a voyage of kindred Krampus. "So, what do you live for?" "Allveryonething." "Thanks, I'll tell my dog about this." He leaned over to his canine companion. "About this." He mumbled courageously, slamming the newest desk onto another desk of the same nature.

Kasmarov Albortchyia cleaved the meat in half with a big, silver dick-nickel who knew nothing of the creeping stars smashing a crumpled duckwitch of doomish death.


	2. his child grilled the fox

The viridescent manhandling gauge of immense graphics scraped against the fruit-bearing chingle dingle, or as Steven liked to call it, "a fucking stupid jar". He crammed thus another glass receptacle into the jar, the glass tentatively slamming into each other, shattering into dozens of free-falling and verdant, cerulean linoleum splinters who had no place yet resided everywhere.

The trees in the area groaned and moaned as the lumber-gem continued swathing the innocentiarial bazzomba forest with fallen timber, slamming into the ground with a wooden crunch. The explosion of the treestock slammed a carnivorous childrenchildkid over the disgruntled and grassy land, slamming yet another smashed grappled ingot of deathwater.

Steven couldn't help but blush at the lithe and crackling, rippling, super superior figure of the gem. As he did so, he realized that the glass jars were being unattended, and as he looked back, a glass projectile supernova assaulted the tables of the house.

"He laughed so loud he farted spaghetti and meatballs"

"WHO SAID SUCH THAT?"

Steven crumpled and receded back into the house, slithering into the glass jars of death.


	3. philosophical ham and chosen

If we were to properly graph and calculate time, we would draw it as a circle. Time—as well as reality—flows like a large circle, flowing in one, infinite direction, incomprehensible to any mortal. Now, one may wonder, how was such a thing crafted? How do people know?

Well, the reason for this is one simple thing: reincarnation. A circle cannot be graphed or calculated, as it is the only form of infinity that we can truly see, touch, and know. A triangle or a square _could theoretically_ be infinite, but it has angles and vertices that limit the illimitable.

So, a circle is the only true geometric form that could be considered never-ending.

The best part of a circle is its simplicity. Anyone with a brain cell can take a pencil and graph one in one, single-second swipe. In one fell swoop, the boundaries of infinity are finite. The boundless become the bounded. The imponderable can be pondered. In spite of this, it still is, in almost every respect, limitless.

Now, for the aforementioned "reincarnation". Reincarnation is defined by Merriam-Webster as "the idea or belief that people are born again with a different body after death." Ergo, if life was delineated on paper, we would once more graph it as a circle. Hypothetically, if we placed the starting point of a circle on its top point, then when life traveled around the circle, it would only strike the starting point again and enter a loop.

There have been several cases of theorized reincarnation, allow me to elaborate.

On a currently popular note, let's take the case between both George Smith Patton Jr., a famous WWII general who was known for his courageous leadership and battle tactics, and Donald John Trump Sr., an American entrepreneur tycoon who is, as of 2016, running for president. Both of these men held a similar, almost identical face. The two men also greatly spoke out their mind and refused to be "politically correct". Donald Trump was born a single year after Patton's death, and Patton believed in reincarnation. Mister Trump also speaks fondly of Patton every rally and frequently compliments him, trying to find "a new General Patton" to fight ISIS, an Islamic terrorist group.

Thus brings my thoughts to an end. A circle determines reality, both through its limitlessness and rebirthing properties. But questions may still linger; "What about a sphere?" one may ask. "Isn't a sphere infinitely more complex than a dull, dull circle?"

To that I remark that, no matter what is said or noted of a sphere, it is merely a solid, tri-dimensional representation of the base of all existence: a circle. Though spheres are more common, a simple look at them will cause the mind to register a circle, _then_ a sphere. You see, the basis of a sphere, the commonplace object, is a circle, such as one would believe God is the basis of All. Relating to that subject, a circle would be the geometric basis of all.

Therefore, a circle is reality, and a reality is circle. This is not philosophy; this is absolute scientific fact. People may combat me, they may say that a different shape births all or that my thesis is completely ludicrous, but I've created impeccable points that will surely stand the test of time.


	4. rash mail creation

Tourmaline rested from the day's hella gay work and loaded the enormous wooden logs into one of the basins in the house. As she did so, she took notice of a small Jew with a Jewish star on his chest and a Jewish hairstyle wearing Jewish shoes and acting like a Jewish Jew. _Fuck, dude._ She thought. _I might have to murder the shit outta someone with a mazungus._

Suddenly, one thousand compacted wiry robots slammed into each other in a screeching, metallic, roaring cacophony that pierced the homosexual nostrils of the holographic fuck. He spun into a golden strand and screwed a ninja made out of porcupines.

Then she noticed that she was covered in quills.

Then she was bleeding.

It hurt pretty bad, yo

Steven pedaled right the fuck out of the house, scooping up remnants of the tree scraps and glass receptacles and stuffing them in his urethra. The author of this story now feels immense pain and wish that he stopped imagining getting urethrally stabbed with glass. Jesus Christ, stop.

Anyway, Steven began running so fast that he accidentally slammed into an unchopped tree that Tourmaline didn't astrally register. The force of the impact affected reality so harshly that he forced the tense of this story into present-tense. Steven groans as he picks himself up, dusting off his skin and shoelaces, which are constructed entirely of one-thousand megabyte USB drives that contain pictures of Dungus Spungus dying. After this, he compacts himself so strongly that he is teleported into a reality in which everything is constructed of either frogs singing about spider webs or glass jars charging a hypernova. He rounds a translucent column and walks into a room, the middle of the area marked by a small cylindrical platform bearing a plate with a drawing of granite on it.

Hannibal Lecter then walks in.

"LIVER AND FAVVA BEANS" he crumples.

"TOMATO PASTE AND GREEN CHILLS!" the scrumpled gooby.

"GREENWICH MAYOR"

"SCRAMBLED CHIKEN"

"MYSOTOPIAN RINGS"

"RILBERTRAXIAN WOOBS"

"DEATH"

"DESPAIR"

Pearl lifted the enormous dumbbell up with a straining arm, hefting it into the air and resting it down. Her eyes lit up and glowed with an infernal golden cast, the pinpricks of neon illuminating the black void.

"I am growing stronger." she said.


	5. lore and an increased rate of lit meme

A ripple in reality flowed through time and in one fell swoop, a large astral slit forced itself open with a motion as smooth as JustSagan eating a dorito. The cosmic interference spurted out Uranium, who tumbled to the ground that had been the footing of many hypermemes before. The opening in time mended itself, leaving reality to be unaffected by the throes of exogalactic disturbances. Uranium slid upwards and stood really tall, the top of his head probing the underside of the nebulae laying above. "Holy shit, what the fuck dude." he remarked.

"Where the fuck am I."

"You're in the fucklord realm, dipshit." a particularly emaciated spacelesbian said, sitting on a log. The log was billowing steam and numerous shattered dumbbells cluttered around the cylindrical piece of timber.

"Yo, what the fuck are you" Uranium responded, briskly pulling a large strip of hardened ketchup off of his skin.

"I am the cosmic ballerina, fuckcranium. I am the ruler of sound and perception."

"Dude, look—I'm harvesting ketchup right now. Leave me alone, okay?" he said, scraping off another large swath of ketchup.

"No, you look with your greasy, reddened eyes, superfaggot. I'm gonna educate you on manners 'n' shit." Her eyes emanated with a crimson light, casting a scarlet hue in the air around her.

"Motherfucked-fucker, listen; I watched every single episode of Mr. Rogers every week—including the re-runs, you galactic negro. I don't need your homosex bullfuck right now."

A large knot of the tomatoey condiment was pulled off of his forearm. He soon felt a particularly mustardy substance materialize underneath his eyes. It was nearly time for him to report back.

"Seriously though, listen."

"Seriously though, fuck off."

Uranium picked up one of the dumbbells and tossed it into a distant star. It incinerated on impact with its fiery surface. "Wow, that's the farthest I've shot."

"Yeah dude, that's pretty neat. Now, I _really_ need you to reposition your fucking eyes to me, you fornicationchild. I have to tell you, and tell you quickly—"

"Hah! I just harvested ten grams in a second! Look at this!"

"Y'know what, fuck you."

The large, dimensional portal reopened and cast Uranium into the churning depths of space.

Hannibal Lecter picked up the granite object and marveled at it.

"CHIANTI" he said.

"I can finally put my solar system in there, my nigger"

A stout frog wearing a shirt constructed of a large panel decorated with dots and lines materialized behind them.

"I am the galactic guardian. Stop doing this shit."

"Nah."

The frog blimped up to an incredible size and burst into an enormous fiery blaze that charred the glass walls and reduced them to a slimy, reflective substance. The revelation that he was not cared for was so huge that it actually exploded him.

"Did we just commit an astral crime?"

"PROBABLY"

"Wow, you're very nonchalant about this."

"IF SO, GOODY-GOODY"

"Huh."

Steven extracted the rocky form out of the cannibal's hands and placed them in his jar. It shined with a white glow and transported the duo to another dimension. This one was far more promising than the last. It was decorated with beautiful trees, lined with twisting concrete pathways and ripe, verdant hills.

Among the lush green field sat a log, and upon the log sat Pearl.

"Oh shit Pearl, I thought Jasper killed you"

"Nah, we just transfer our physical body to a new realm and exercise until we grow stronger." Her statement was punctuated with a bright demonic light radiating from her eyes.

"Neat. You wouldn't happen to have ten grams of skinketchup, would you?"

"No, but there was some guy that just came here who was harvesting some fleshcondiments. I don't know where he went—he was annoying and unreceptive so I casted him into the cosmic Limbo."

"Aw shit, you didn't have to do that"

"I'VE COME TO COLLECT A HEAD"

"Is that Hannibal Lecter?"

"Probably."

"Huh" she grunted, lifting another massive weight. "Anyways, I need to inform you guys on some wacky shit going on in the metaphysical layers, and I need you guys to seriously listen.

"Aight."

"I need you to cut out the hearts of two bureaucrats, mix all their blood with honey, harvest the semen of Christopher Poole and add it to the concoction, and then pour the liquid down the second borehole of the Acceptation Well."

"I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO PERFORM THIS TASK"

"Don't worry, traversing the boundlayers from now on will inject you with random bits of information. I collected the fragments relating to this subject and placed them around this dimensional hole. Make sure not to get near anti-matter though, they're neutralized but feast on memories and brainwaves. They can pretty much render you braindead if you screw them around hard enough."

"Huh"

"I bet the author's gonna shoehorn that quote into a catchphrase for you."

"Huh"

"Okay. Anyways, back into the void you go, pham."

They were immediately jerked back into a cosmic crater and forced into the restless bounds of space.


End file.
